


Beloved Enemy

by GayleF (Gayle)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1976-01-01
Updated: 1976-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayle/pseuds/GayleF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of Gayle F. and is copyright (c) 1976 by Gayle F.  This story is Rated NC-17. Originally published in Grup #5, 1976, Carrie Brennan, editor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beloved Enemy

Spock entered the elevator and pressed the button for the 10th floor. He shared it with a glaring Andorian, two bristling Romulans, and a Vulcan he thought looked in need of meditation. The peace conference was ending badly.

Room 1015 she had said. If he wished to see her... He still did not know if he was drawn to her as a Vulcan as well as a human. He had noted other Vulcan males at the conference who seemed disquieted by the presence of Romulan females. Did they respond as fully as he did? Enough to be sexually moved outside of _pon farr_? He had felt neutral with the other Romulan women, but neutral within an awareness of sexual possibility that he did not feel with Vulcan or human women. There had not been that electrical charge he had felt with the Commander at their first meeting, and he felt again here, as soon as he saw her again. But that was similar to human sexuality, the _right chemistry_. His efforts to untangle human from Vulcan left him, as always, alone with himself and his own reactions and his willingness to accept them or not.

He knocked lightly. After a moment the door opened. As always, her gaze was direct and intent, searching.

I thought you were not coming.”

“Do you still wish. ..?”

“Yes. Come in.” She moved ahead of him into the room. She had changed from her commander's uniform into a clinging gown of swirling abstract patterns, tied at the waist and sleeves. She commanded the anonymous hotel room, her presence making it as much hers as her starship. She had set the lighting panel for deep orange. On the table by the couch were a brandy snifter, some music tapes. As he listened the final strains came to an end, and they were alone with silence between them.

Turning to him. she raised her hand to his lips and he to hers, feeling the field of energy spring to life between them, as if they had never been interrupted in her cabin. The same tension, the same desire, an electric current that sparked on the end of their fingertips. He had not forgotten, but memory was pale to the touch.

“Do you kiss?” she asked suddenly, challenging him with her eyes. “I've never been kissed.”

He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her gently. Her lips were soft under his, but unresponsive. He looked at her questioningly.

“It is not unpleasant,” she said, but hardly overwhelming.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he bent to her again. Delicately as his fingertips had done, the tip of his tongue traced the outline of her lips. She gasped and, as her lips parted, he caressed the moist inner edge. Her lips brushed his and he pressed gently to part them further, encountering her first tentative tasting of him, touch of tongue tip to tongue tip. He felt a shiver that ran through both of them; then gently her hands pushed him away. Their breath came more quickly, and the small space between their bodies seemed to quiver and pulsate. She seemed more wary, if challenging, as their eyes met, and her voice was husky.

“That was most interesting. Are you familiar with any other human perversions?”

He repressed a smile, raising an eyebrow instead. “I consider it my duty to inform myself, to some extent, on all aspects of my human heritage. In this matter there appears to be great variety, though much of it is simply variations on the same theme.”

On impulse he let his tongue follow the exquisite curve of her ear, a smooth stroke up to the point then down, curving into the intricate hollow. Her hands tightened on his shoulders and in response to the hot flash between them, he gathered her into his arms, cradling her body against his. But she did not relax; her hands clasped his shoulders as much to hold him away as to draw him close. Regretfully, he released her and stepped back, leaving that small pulsating space between them again.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She turned and walked away a few feet, stood toying with the lighting panel. He noted that he experienced some distortion of vision, those few feet seeming to stretch out an irretrievable distance between them. She did not reply, so he offered what seemed most obvious to him.

“You do not trust me?”

“As much as you trust me.”

“Less, I think.”

Given their conflicting political allegiances, a true meld would be tantamount to invasion, but he had opened himself enough to her responses to know they were genuine. But such telepathic ability as she possessed was undeveloped. She would not be able to trust her own impressions of him, as he did of her.

“There was a lie between us,” he said, when we met before. Necessary, but distasteful. Yet that lie opened an exchange between us that I would not, perhaps, have had the courage to acknowledge otherwise. Now, because of that same lie, I do not know if I can give you any words to create trust between us.”

Her head was bent and he could not see her face as she responded. “This would have been easier if I had felt less. Part of me would like to be able to dismiss you, or vanquish you. That is the truth. But there is a greater truth.” She looked at him and smiled ruefully. "No, Spock. I do not want you to go."

She kicked off her sandals, then undid the sash that bound her waist and the ties on the sleeves of her garment so that it slipped to the floor, leaving her standing naked in its folds. The shifting patterns of light revolved, staining her skin rose and orange, blue and green.

He understood it as an offering of self as well as body and responded in both body and spirit, a surge of longing for her. Yearning, his eyes traveled over her body, its exquisite blend of sinew and softness, matching the strength and vulnerability of her being. He wanted to gather her in his arms, but her eyes still held him at a distance, her gaze expectant.

Slowly then, he undressed for her, laying Starfleet aside, a little pile on the couch, so they stood naked self to naked self. He felt himself stir as her gaze swept over him with the same admiration and yearning.

“Come then,” she said, and walked past him. He followed her into the bedroom.

She lay on the bed and he sat beside her. The tension was drawn like a tight rein between them, the next touch irrevocable. He was moved when it was she who reached up, her parted fingers moving over his face almost blindly. His own hand reached out in response.

“No,” she whispered. “Kiss me. I want you to kiss me.”

For a moment he felt disturbed, as though she insisted on holding him outside her own sexuality, making him exotic, alien. But he knew it was as much his own unresolved conflict at being half human that disturbed him. He could not deny there had been pleasure for both of them in that human gesture, and anything less than true self to true self would betray them both again.

He pressed her palm to his lips, then leaned over her, kissing her ear, her temple, her forehead, the arch of her brow. Feeling infinitely tender, he brushed her eyelids with his lips, moved across the smooth plane of her cheek to mouth. As she responded to his kiss, gently his hands descended her body, caressing her throat, her shoulders, gathering her breasts, the nipples hardening under his touch, dark as emeralds. He traveled the gentle swell of her belly and hip, his hands curving inward, trailing his fingertips along the softness of her inner thigh. Smiling inwardly to himself, remembering another human “perversion,” he let his lips follow the path of his hands.

The delicious musk of her body aroused him. Gently he parted her thighs, trying always to stay within the current of energy he felt flowing between them. He moved to lie between her legs, rubbing his cheek against the glossy thatch of hair. She tensed and he felt her caught on some twig of her being, resisting the flow of desire. He stroked her, massaged the muscles of her thighs until he felt the tension ease. He then nuzzled her, pressing his lips against her soft inner lips, stroking upward with his tongue to part them, opening her to taste her moist, hot flesh. She cried out then, her body arching against him. Her desire surged through him, the current suddenly swift and fierce. He wound his arms around her and drew her closer, a succulent green fleshed fruit he devoured hungrily. Her clitoris thrust like a tiny tongue against his. He drew it into his mouth, responding to each thrust and throb, licking, biting her gently, drinking desire from her like wine as she writhed around him. His lips seemed to dissolve in her wet flesh as he pressed her against him, urged her, his hand twining in her crisp hair, urged her, seeking the rhythm at the core of her being and holding her tightly. Holding the rhythm as she surged around him, her energy sweeping over him in waves, and beyond, as the waves broke, shattered, holding her fast. As the peak of each orgasm faded, he drew her up again, again, until finally he understood the Romulan. She sobbed. He stopped.

He kissed her gently and released her. Kneeling between her legs, he rose to look at her. Her face was tear streaked. Impulsively she reached out a hand to him. He pressed it palm to palm, fingers to fingers. Her eyes lowered to where he waited, hard and aching for her, then raised to his again, urging him to enter her.

Slowly he sheathed himself in her flesh, sharing with her the center of her body. For a moment he lay quietly, feeling the waning throbs of her orgasm pulsate around him. Then she embraced him, twined her legs round his and squeezed him so deeply that he moaned. She kissed his face softly. Drawing his head close, she teased his ears with her tongue, sending shivers along his spine. He began to move within her, calling her name ... its syllables breaking down into single sweet notes that blended with the rhythm of his thrusts.

He wanted to make her a gift of passion equal to her own, but found that some part of his consciousness fought the desire. Sensations ran like liquid fire through his body, surged, crested, but did not break. At the peak his mind asserted itself, wanting always to observe, contain, control, and the liquid fire turned back on him, shuddering along his nerves, now sharp and electric. A phrase of Vulcan teaching came to his mind, that he knew he had understood only intellectually before, “Control is imperfect if it cannot be relinquished.”

“Spock.” She called to him, echoing his thoughts. “Spock, this is a battle you must lose to win.”

She began to fight with him then, so that he had to struggle to hold her. She was fierce and quick and very strong and, if he was stronger, it was no easy matter to subdue the whirlwind suddenly sprung to life beneath him. But even in the midst of that duel, she held him fast, their bodies did not part. She mingled kisses with small sharp bites that made him gasp. When he finally gained control of her, they are both panting. Then, as swiftly as she had begun, she relaxed, though her eyes shone hot and bright under the tangled strands of her hair. He released her and gently drew back the strands from her face.

“You see how gracefully I lose... ” she murmured, “ _lahana arekau_.”

The patterns of Romulan speech were still difficult for him to untangle, but the single words were close to the ancient Vulcan tongue he knew.

“Beloved enemy,” he repeated in Standard, almost bewildered by the fierce tenderness that welled up in him. Her strong legs wrapped around his back, an embrace that drew him deep within her. Unable to resist the consummation of mind as well as body, his hands reached to join them. A cry broke from both their lips and he heard it merge into one voice as the flame from each of them leaped to fill the void between them. Her mouth sought his, sharing a single tongue between them. Wherever they touched, their bodies fused into one, limbs like serpents of fire twining about their single being, a shell, a crucible of flesh dissolving into its own molten core. Centering that molten core, the secret heart of their body pulsed, throbbed, exploded from within.

As their consciousness slowly reformed itself, regretfully he released her mind. But he found it was sweet to know her separate once again, to feel arms that were once again hers and not theirs, coil around him. He lay beside her and drew her head onto his chest, stroking her hair, content to be wordless, drifting with her over the gently ebbing waves of sensation.

After a time she rose and he watched as she walked to the other room, sinuous as a cat, a pale jade lioness. She knelt and selected one of her tapes, inserted it, raising the volume. He felt his blood stir again as she approached. She sat beside him on the bed and he reached up to draw her into a kiss.

“No. Lie back,” she said, letting her fingers trail lightly over his chest. “Now I shall teach you a Romulan way, a way taught me by the love of my youth, who was “ _yshanna kymerici_.”

“A mystic warrior?”

“A warrior priest. It is very simple really, but while Romulan men are passionate, few are subtle. You are both, so I shall teach you this way. But,” she said, taking the hand that strayed a1ong her thigh, “you must put yourself in my hands. The touching is for me. Now listen, be with the music. I have chosen it for you.”

He bade his body relax. The music was smooth and gentle, seeking, and he followed the ebb and flow of its patterns with his mind as his eyes did her face, the sway of her breasts, the graceful movements of her arms as they ministered over him.

Her hands and fingertips moved ceaselessly, always within the music, as she caressed his entire body, making it an instrument she played, the loom from which she drew invisible threads, weaving a tapestry of sensation from his flesh. He felt himself tense with the fear that he had given her too much control, was enmeshed in the web she had spun, a web that held him fast. Then within the established patterns, her hands soothed and comforted him, and his trust in her renewed itself. He was tense but he heard the tension within the music. She had chosen it for him, woven it into his blood and nerves. He listened carefully, to the complex structure, the emotional tone. It reminded him of Mahler, of Ferritas of Mellita II, of an old Vulcan mating song of the transitional period. It grew fiercer and his desire grew with it. Her hands moving inward, upward, along his thighs, but they no longer touched his skin. The fibers of his being extended into the air surrounding him, a quivering aura. He moaned, and the moan wove itself into the fabric of sound and sensation. The music was fierce, but melancholy, straining, yearning, never breaking free. Sweetness and violence sounded in a single chord, striving to resolve itself, and he strove with it, spirit and flesh aching for resolution. Her hands drew him up and he rose, hard with longing.

She knelt over him and drew his body into her, as the music drew itself together, tauter and tauter. His body arched, thrust deep into her, reverberating with an exquisite agony. For a moment he thought he would die, shatter like glass. Only something gave within his being, within the music, did not shatter but dissolved, the warring chords melting into simplicity. Emerging from that dissolution, the single pure note of a bell sounded, and sounded again, sweetness echoing on sweetness, his whole being sounding with it, melting into joy.

The last vibrations of the last note were fading, and with them the last sweet flow of his seed into her womb. Her hands rested quietly on him, his body still trembling under her touch.

“Did I please you? ” she asked mockingly.

He laughed, a sudden welling from deep within. Involuntarily he bit his lips to stop. She pressed her fingertips to them.

“No. I demand my tribute. From a Vulcan I'm sure laughter is more precious and rare than tears.”

He drew her gently to him, wondering how long since he had known such happiness, been so at peace with himself.

She kissed him softly. “Now we have made a gift of love, one to the other, as fate made us a gift of this night.”

Promises and commitments rose, and died unspoken before his mind's calm ... illogical, illogical, illogical. He sighed. Their eyes met and they knew they were in accord.

“If it is meant,” she said, “we will find each other again.”

She nestled against him. Suddenly it seemed the loveliest and most logical thing in the world to sleep and he curled around her, stilling his breathing, spiraling slowly down with her into the awaiting arms of that dark caress.

THE END


End file.
